Socially Unkillable
by Sylvanna
Summary: So here's the thing, Fanfiction. This is about the Games. But all the characters are people I know. No kidding. I asked them. And they responded. Last names emitted for privacy purposes.
1. Chapter 1

"Well, Caesar, we've had an interesting mix of tributes this year. Am I right?" The Gamemaker, Garrett, announced. He grinned, flashing lime green teeth. They contrasted with his traffic-cone neon shirt and tie. Just staring at the clothing items made one's eyes ache.

Shifting in his fuscia suit, Caesar nodded. The sequins he wore in his hair sparkled and glinted at the camera. His own hair matched his outfit. This was Caesar, monocolored for the Games. Last year had been bright red. This year….pink was in. "That's certainly true. Let's recap, shall we?"

* * *

The camera view flashed to a very pristine District One. The crowd gathered featured many determined-looking young adults, faces set in stone. Being Careers, they all vied for the position of a volunteer. This was just how things went in the first and second Districts.

The clip on the screen showed a Capitol feature of the Games' history before flashing to the Capitol representative, Rebekkie. She was wearing a knee-length, form-fitting red dress which to no one's surprise matched the fiery shade of her hair perfectly. It was piled into a mass of curls on the crown of her head, bouncing as she walked up to the microphone.

"Now then," she grinned, showing off bizarre pointed teeth. "let's get started!"

A loud ripple of applause showered on her from the crowd. Gently, she plucked a sheet of paper. Smacking her lips together once, she unfolded it and began to pronounce the name there before she was interrupted by a hand shooting up into the air.

"I volunteer!" the voice belonging to the hand declared. Unabashed by the interruption, Rebekkie beckoned the volunteer to the stage. He was very tall. Yet, he wasn't bulky like the usual crop of Careers. His hair was dark and short, his form lanky.

"And what's your name?" Rebekkie asked him politely. He smiled, shocking the viewers. What was this young man skilled in that he, despite not being particularly stocky in appearance, would volunteer over the latest killing machines that One produced?

"Thomas," he answered simply.

A deathly pale silence continued before Rebekkie tottered over to the girls' bowl and selected a name. "Rach-"

"I volunteer!" A young, blond girl fought her way to the stage's edge. She was slender and wearing a tight, leather jumpsuit. A nod of approval echoed throughout the audience. She would uphold the District's honor.

"And your name, dear?" Rebekkie's smooth voice inquired.

The girl's face was soft, yet her voice was hard when she replied. "Jessica."

* * *

District Two was abuzz with the same energy. The crowd here, though, had taken special care to place chairs in rows where the children would wait. Draped with white silk banners, these chairs were each in turn filled with a young adult with the same idea as their neighbors: bring the District another win.

There were two children in particular favored for this year's volunteering place; Grace, a tall girl with fuzzy brown hair and a malice unrivaled by her peers, could handle a scythe with skill. She had bested her instructor at age thirteen, urged after to wait until this year to volunteer. The item she would choose to bring into the Arena – a silver necklace with a scythe charm dangling from its point – reminded the District just how well they had trained for the year's Games. Her outfit was plain and unassuming: a yellow sundress and strappy sandals – designed by her trainer to hide her true skills. Secrecy and surprise would win the Games, she was assured.

The second child and male tribute, Robbie, was short for his age. This being so, he entered training a year after Grace. However, he soon proved his worth when his swordplay became deadly. No one doubted him anymore. He sat, arms crossed, beside Grace in the front row.

To no one's surprise, they were the volunteers whose voices were loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the crowd. They took their places on the stage, waving goodbye when they were lead by a score of Peacekeepers to the waiting area.

Grace's trainer, Jodi, chose to see her. She earned priority over Grace's own parents.

"Now, remember your training." The woman reminded her, tapping Grace's necklace once. "And whatever you do, don't make an Alliance with Robbie. I trained him, too. Remember that. He is your equal and biggest adversary in the Games this year. Understand?"

Grace nodded. "I understand."

Unlike with Grace, Robbie did not receive a visit from Jodi or anyone else. He sat alone in the waiting area, head between his knees. He felt sick. Grace was the worst person he could think of to face him in the Games. He'd seen her train, and he knew that she was Jodi's favorite. Who knew how'd he eliminate her? They'd trained separately.

He decided what to do as the train pulled away, sweeping into a forest. Grace lounged on one of the plush recliners placed in the living room of the train. Her eyes were trained on the window, legs dangling over the armrest. Calm.

He'd just have to kill her himself.

* * *

Allison didn't know what she would do. She smoothed her floral, pastel pink dress over her knees. She waited for her Mom to come see her in the waiting area. After all, this might be the last time she'd get to see her daughter in person. Only sixteen, Allison was a fair-skinned girl with little to no physical strength. Her family owned a clothing shop. She did not train like the scary, muscular tributes from One and Two.

For God's sake, she sewed.

Then her name had been called. Her name! She was only in the bowl a few times! The odds were in her favor, yet she might not live past the first few days of the Games.

Her hands shook; she stuffed them under her thighs to stop the trembling.

"Allie!" her Mother's voice interrupted her nervousness, wrapping her in a sense of peace. The woman rushed forwards and folded her into a long hug. "Oh, honey."

"I know, Mom," Allison willed her voice to stay even. "I'll be fine."

"You can-you can find an alliance! Get with those kids from One. They'll protect you."

Allison smiled. It was a preposterous idea; the Career alliances would have to be convinced she had value before they'd let her. "Of course, Mom."

"Time's up," a harsh voice echoed through the small room. Dread pricked at Allison's hands again, making them rock a bit. Even trapped under her legs.

"Your brothers said to wish you good luck," Allison's Mom said, tripping over the word, 'luck.' Before being swept from the room by the buff Peacekeeper guarding the door, she had time to push a stray blond curl from Allison's face. It had stuck there on a tear.

There was little luck to give. They both knew it.

The other tribute from Three, a brainy boy by the name of Colin, fiddled with his holographic watch. District Three provided the Capitol with electronics and technology, and Colin had invented the watch last year. Now he got the pleasure of seeing it in small ads in Capitol fashion magazines.

But it wouldn't help him in the Games.

His Father had already said his quick goodbye. Colin twisted the band around, re-playing the short segment the Capitol had already played on their television sets. It showed him nearly face-planting on the way up to the stage, answering his name with a high break in his voice, and then looking at his tribute counterpart – Allison, a pale, small girl – with fear locked in his eyes.

This really wasn't going to go well for him.

* * *

**Whew! Districts One through Three are done! *wipes forehead* **


	2. Chapter 2

Caesar gave a Cheshire-cat smile. "Well, those volunteers looked mighty impressive."

Garrett nodded, folding his hands gently over a cup of tea. "Yes," he said, taking a slow sip. "they are."

"I can only imagine what you have planned for them. Tell me, what's the Arena like this year?" Caesar tapped his fingers on the desk in front of the pair. In the background, pictures began showing in succession.

Garrett laughed, setting his cup down. "It's quite different than previous years, Mr. Flickerman. I can assure you that the tributes are completely unprepared for a few surprises scattered around the Arena for them."

A picture blew up on the screen displaying a large, grassy field with grainlike plants waving in the breeze. Surrounding the area, mountainside displayed large expanses of caves shrouded by a ring of dense forest. The next picture revealed a large, flowing waterfall with a hidden cave behind it.

"Wow." Caesar whistled, clearly impressed. "That is a stunning landscape, Garrett."

Garrett chuckled maliciously. "I hope so."

"Now then. Let's see the next Reapings."

* * *

The water of District Four was unusually still. No boats straddled the reeds, manned by tan men and women carrying nets and tridents. No harvest of wriggling fish would be hauled that day.

For today, everyone was in the District's center, holding their breath. Each pair of eyes shifted to their friends and family. Who knew? This could be the last time they'd see some of the faces swimming in the crowd.

Then, the eyes were directed to the stage as the District's mentor, Newton, took the stage. A man of about forty-five, Newton had won when he was seventeen. Despite the District's trade relying almost solely on physical ability, the last years of Games had brought twelve-year-olds shaking in their skins.

The Capitol was not being kind to them. And they knew why. The fish in their waters were sickly, small. No longer was their main harvest in these creatures. In order to avoid the wrath of the Capitol and the Peacekeepers they sent, the frightened people had begun to use seaweed as a major crop. The leafy, leathery substance proved useful in food as well as for odd clothing materials, such as purses and even hats. Sadly, however, the Capitol wasn't quite pleased with this export. And their performance in the Games testified to this.

Newton coughed, adjusting the microphone to accommodate his tall form. Running a hand over his balding hair, he read from a notecard clutched tightly in his fist.

"This year, I have been chosen to draw this year's tributes. Please remain seated throughout the ceremony."

Newton's hand shoved into a fishbowl-like-vase of folded papers. Drawing one up, Newton read it aloud. Although he was not near the microphone, his voice carried fairly easily. Added to this was every ear hoping that their kin and their loved ones were safe another year.

"Serina Alla."

A girl strode forward and took her place on the stage. The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea for Moses. The remaining girls seemed to almost smile as she went. Serina was an outspoken girl with many friends, but they found that parting with her wouldn't be hard. Not when they themselves were safe.

Serina's dark, curly hair was twisted to one side, flowing over her shoulder. Fluttering as she walked, her sea green dress was tied with a bow on the back. One could say she was very pretty; if not by skill, she might be able to forge an alliance and survive. But then again, perhaps not.

Newton patted the girl once on the back. Without another word, he drew the boys' name.

"Benji," he announced. He didn't need to give a last name for this one. Everyone knew Benji and his jack-of-all-trades mentality. He did, however, lack a certain ability to be heartless. This being so, the youngest members of District Four often rallied to him. He wouldn't last very long, they thought in unison.

Newton looked sadly at each of the children. They were both about age fifteen, give or take one.

"Ladies and gentleman, your tributes."

Everyone found it within them to wave. Clapping was too loud, too obscene for this goodbye. But waving…you might do it to an old friend. It seemed more appropriate, somehow.

But to both of them alike, they saw it as a final warning not to come back.

* * *

"Behold the prides of the District!" The booming voice of Jenson, District Five's loud mentor. At age nineteen, Jenson had won the Games only a year earlier.

The two tributes; Ally, a curly-headed tall girl of impressive stature; and Stephen, an also curly-headed, quiet boy, smiled. There was no joy in the curve of their lips. They were only smiling for the sake of those they left behind. Although they left behind family, their only friends were each other. Best friends since the ages of two, the pair lined up for this particular Reaping with an uneasy sense of dread making their limbs drag heavily at their bodies. They didn't know why until Jenson had read their names.

So this was it. They had to kill each other.

Ally turned to Stephen and shook hands as tradition dictated. Jenson ushered the pair straight into the train without a goodbye visit from their families; they were already late due to a very drunk boy by the name of Ethan staggering onstage and shouting for the tributes to take baths in saltwater and brine. Jenson was embarrassed by Ethan, his little brother. After he was escorted offstage, the Reaping had commenced as normal.

Once on the train, Ally and Stephen sat across from each other. A large tray of fruit-centered dishes was arrayed on the table separating them. A tower of cherries rested on a stacked square of oranges. Slices of fatty bacon dripped grease on apples, making the meat sweet and the fruit savory. The pair nodded slightly, tucking in to the food. They'd need to put on weight in order to survive the Games. Who knew how fast the Careers would secure the food sources at the Cornucopia?

Being from the District charged with the production of electricity and power, they knew precious little about outdoor survival. Their only chance was to secure separate alliances. That is, if they wanted to avoid seeing each other die.

Ally took a slow bite of the bacon. "When do we begin training?"

Jenson cracked a grin, tossing a small steak knife at the wall. Ally dodged the projectile, shocked. It skimmed her cheek, taking off a small amount of skin. Her face stung, and, drawing her hand to the place, Ally found small spots of blood on her fingertips.

"Whenever's good."

* * *

Karlee pulled her Reaping outfit into perfect placement. A plain white shirt paired with a pretty, flowy, short pale blue skirt. Her hair was curled at its mixed brown and blonde edges, resting gently on her shoulders. She met her reflection with a smile.

"Are you ready, Karlee?" Karlee's younger sister, Lily Anne, crooned from the kitchen. Known as Anne by her family, the snarky ten-year-old was also known for her high-pitched voice.

"Coming, Anne!" Karlee called back, grabbing her favorite broach, a simply design of white metal heart studded with two pearls at the bottom. She fastened it to her shirt before dashing out the door.

_Good Lord_, Mathew thought to himself, wiping his sweaty hands on the pair of tan pants his Mother forced him into for the Reaping, _I'm already nervous and the name hasn't even been called. _

The girl tribute for their district had already been chosen: Karlee, a classic beauty whose little sister had screamed for her as she sauntered onto the stage. Karlee had smiled sadly at the girl, putting a single finger to her lips. Immediately, the sobbing child fell silent.

"Oh, God." The crestfallen announcer read. "Mathew."

Mathew's uncle, Jordan, was the announcer. Mathew felt his face crumple. Fighting to keep it straight, Mathew climbed the small stairs to the stage. He studied his shoes. They were scuffed and old, hand-me-downs from his older brother.

Hopefully, no one would notice.

"Our tributes." Jordan swallowed heavily. "For this year's Games."

Then the ceremony ended, and they were led into a small room. They were told that, due to Mathew's uncle's standing, they would not be allowed goodbyes. However, they were allotted some time. By law, they could spend it before boarding the train to the Capitol.

"It'll be okay, Mathew," Karlee's gentle voice assured him.

"Will it, though?"

Karlee placed a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah. We can be our own alliance." She sighed, her gaze falling on the broach she wore. "Anne would like that."

"Who's Anne?" Mathew asked, before answering his own question. It was Karlee's absolutely heartbroken expression that sealed her answer. "Oh."

Karlee pursed her lips; Mathew thought he spotted rogue tears at the corner of her large, kind brown eyes. "It's okay. We'll win, right?"

He could only nod, trying himself to deny the reality they faced. They would soon be dead.

Anne would never get to hug her big sister again.


	3. Chapter 3

Whitt squinted at the bright sunlight. He should be on his way to the Reaping, but at the moment, he was waiting outside Sydney's house for her. The brunette took forever to get ready, and even the day where two of their own peers would be carted off to the Capitol for their death, she wasn't ready until after she was supposed to be.

"I'm ready!" she ruffled her medium-length layered mane. She was dressed better than usual given the occasion, in a short dress which tucked in at her waist. The color, a light minty blue, contrasted with her dark features. Her skin was tan from staying outside all day with him.

"Finally," he laughed. "We're already late." He shoved his hands into his pockets. They were only a half-mile away from the District center.

"Yeah." Sydney rolled her brown eyes. "As if either of us would be called. That would be a fail in itself."

"Well, maybe they'd think we were the keys to leaving an impression on the Capitol."

Sydney laughed, amusement making her eyes turn into joyful slits. "We would leave an impression for sure. A scarring one."

Indifferently, Whitt shrugged. "But an impression all the same."

"I don't think that's the point. There is this thing called winning."

Whitt took a moment to watch Sydney. She was lightheartedly not thinking about the danger they were both in. Though the chances were slim, it was possible that either of them could be facing twenty-three other killers in a short amount of time. Having lost his older sister Paula to the Hunger Games when he was three, Whitt knew the danger better than the girl ever could.

But suddenly, Sydney's smile faltered. "You're older than I am."

"Yeah?" Whitt knew where she was going with this. "So?"

She stopped him with her hands on his shoulders. "Your name is in more times than mine."

"Come on," Whitt tried to distract her. "I'm sure Micaela's looking for you."

"No, Whitt." Sydney shook her head, making the layers in her hair reposition themselves on her shoulders. He noticed the worry in her eyes, softening the ambition they usually held. "I'm serious. I can't volunteer for you. I'm a girl."

"And I can't protect you, if your name is called." Whitt pointed out tentatively.

She tiptoed, kissing him on his cheek. "You be careful, then."

"I will."

Micaela spotted Sydney as she parted with Whitt. Unlike previous years, she hadn't waved and winked. Micaela hooked Sydney's elbow to grab her attention.

"What? Huh?" Sydney exclaimed distractedly.

The announcer, a plain mousy woman named Lady, took the stage and tapped the microphone. "Shall we begin?"

Micaela noticed how stupid that was; no one was going to answer her.

"I've already picked the names," Lady tweeted, fanning two slips of paper out in her skeletal fingers. "So I'll just read them."

Micaela held her breath, Sydney's arm slung around her.

Wait.

Her name.

"Micaela."

She heard it.

She took to the stage, watching Sydney's mouth form a shocked O. Then watched the tears as the second name was called.

"Whitt."

* * *

Berto and Holly sat in matching purple chairs in the train. After the Reaping, they had said goodbye to various family members. Since their mentor had yet to arrive in the dinner cart, they'd enjoyed sweet plum tarts and said nothing to each other.

"So," Holly nibbled off the corner of a cookie which oozed white chocolate. Berto spotted a small, nondescript tattoo on her wrist. "What are your strengths?"

Berto's eyes narrowed. What was her play here. "What are yours?"

Holly laughed and smiled. "I'm not sure. I've never had to face my death before."

How could she be so happy about this? "I handle a spear," he admitted.

"Nice," Holly finished the cookie and swallowed. "I'm just small."

"That could keep you alive," Bero mused. "If you hide somewhere." He picked up a red velvet petit fours, noticing how it matched the trim on the room with its stark white frosting. All the foods seem to correlate with the exquisite decoration done on the room. Holly seemed to take it all in with eager eyes, while Berto eyed it with suspicion. Immersed in luxury now, he knew that soon they'd be very much on their own.

The question remained: did Holly?

The pair's mentor entered the room. She was a short, curvy woman with an infectious smile that reminded Berto of Holly's.

"Let's eat, first." She insisted, piling their plates with strange new food. Placing a plate at both their spots, she took a seat and sipped delicately on a small goblet of wine.

"Decide now: do you each want to be trained together or separately?"

Holly turned to Berto. "I don't have a problem with together."

Berto wasn't sure whether to trust Holly or not. He was the maximum age allowed for the Games, so if anything, he could learn more on how to get rid of Holly by training with her.

"I'm down."

Paula smiled. "As your mentor, I'd like to say that you two should ally yourselves. In my Games, I teamed up with Alex, who was my counterpart." Paula's eyes clouded. "Of course, we made it very far before I had to….take care of him."

Holly picked at a piece of pastry. "Oh."

Berto smiled. This should be easy.


	4. Chapter 4

Sighing, Joni glared at the loaf of porous bread centered in the table. Steaming idly on a wood tray, it had cost Joni another entry into the drawing for the Reaping. More oil, sitting in a tub in the pantry, and grain enough for the bread. While the people in the Capitol received tons of freshly harvested grains from her District, she had to sacrifice for her family's main meal.

Joni spooned some bean stew into her mouth. She swallowed the scalding substance, surprised by its lack of flavor. Though she supposed she shouldn't have been. For her, it was standard fare for meals.

"Ready for the Reaping today?" Joni's Mother asked her, managing a smile.

"Of course, ma'am," Joni answered sweetly. She scooped another mouthful of soup to drown her need for more conversation. She didn't have very many friends. Her only worry was that her Mother and Father wouldn't be able to scrape together enough money in her absence to afford food. Her tesserae participation was keeping them fed. But, that is, only if she was called.

She had the faintest idea that she was the most-entered female in her District. It wasn't looking well for her. To tell the truth, Joni had collected tesserae for other families, too. She bargained each year on the slim chance she wouldn't be called.

Next door to Joni's run-down shack, Ben hoisted his little brother Jay onto his back.

The toddler squealed with delight. "Again!"

Ben grinned. "Again maybe, I'll ask Joni to serve us up some cake. Would you like that?"

Twin dimples appeared at the sides of Jay's lips. Ben liked having money – his Father was a Peacekeeper, his Mother an official recording grain harvests to the Capitol. This being so, Joni and her parents were charged rent and in return, Joni was offered a job. Although he knew the girl's wages could at least feed and clothe her appropriately, he often heard his Mother discussing the high amount of tesserae that she collected.

Joni could have married up this year, being sixteen. She wasn't unpleasant to look at – dark eyes framed by curly lashes, skin like smooth, poreless cocoa. Why she didn't was beyond Ben. He himself was promised to some girl in the Capitol through family connections. He hadn't met her, and had originally been disappointed to hear that his parents approved the match without him meeting the girl, but he got over it. He had time.

Later that day at the Reaping, Ben hugged Jay's chubby body and then retreated into the proper section. He spotted Joni squinting nervously at the stage, continually wrinkling and smoothing the coarse gray frock which hung shapelessly on her.

"Joni." She was called. It was if she expected it. She flashed a bittersweet smile at her parents before closing her eyes and standing in silence. Ben thought the action odd – she should do something, something else besides this.

"Ben."

He didn't hear the announcer correctly. He laughed.

"Ben, honey, come on stage."

Maybe he didn't have so much time after all.

* * *

Nathan pushed the cow forward. "Moooooveee over," he said with a smile, making Maddie laugh.

"You really shouldn't be making jokes. Today's the Reaping," the small, dark-haired girl pointed out.

Nathan shrugged. "It's fine. After all, she doesn't know that." He pointed to the large-eyed cow, who was watching them with wide stupidity.

"You never know," Maddie said, locking the latched gate and striding with Nathan on the long path to the area where they would be separated into gender and age groups for the Reaping. "She could."

"What if she did? That would be kinda weird. Like, 'guys, get someone else to milk me tomorrow, you'll be at the Capitol',"

Maddie laughed again. "That would be pretty funny." Her hair was braided over one shoulder. She wore simple, farmworking clothing – denim pants and a cotton shirt. They both did.

Small wildflowers grew along the path, springing up in odd places and twitching sporadically in the gusty breezes. Nathan plucked an orange one and placed it behind her ear.

"Looks good," he said. Noticing that they both smelled slightly of hay and manure, he coughed. "And we could use it. Your Mom is going to kill us."

Maddie elbowed Nathan's side, watching his gray eyes watch her with a suddenly solemn expression. He was truly unusual-looking for the District, as far as she knew. His hair was dark, skin slightly pale, and eyes ethereally light. "She won't mind. After all, we can shower when we get back."

Nathan shuddered. "Cold water, though."

They embraced, parting into their separated sections. "See you in a bit."

The District's mentor, Zeke Abel, took to the stage. He was willowy and lithe, reminding Maddie of a snake greased with butter.

"Welcome, District Ten! How are you all this morning?"

"Tired!" the obnoxious voice of Zeke's father, Abel, shouted from his intoxicated stupor.

Zeke's harsh brown eyes glared at Maddie, as if she had handed Abel a glass of champagne. "Maddie."

She shook her head, not believing her ears. "You didn't pick the name."

"Fortune has smiled on you, my dear," Zeke answer smoothly. His voice was a kind of seductive curse. "I picked them up earlier."

Maddie ignored his outstretched hand, climbing onto the stage without the stairs. Zeke appeared appalled as he shouted the next name.

"Nathan."

The chance of getting hit by lightning was higher than this happening. Maddie and Nathan.

"This is a coincidence," Zeke answered, almost in a hiss. "The young couple."

Maddie turned towards Nathan. "This is no coincidence," she whispered to herself.

To no one's surprise, she was right.

* * *

**A/N: Hahahahaha. I owe both Maddie and Nathan big apologies. They don't know each other in real life, and I made them a couple.**

**Sorry guys.**

**This is so much fun.**


	5. Chapter 5

Kat reached to push her hair behind her ear. However, finding it short – cut just the past afternoon – she settled with blowing the offended bangs upwards.

"So annoying," she mumbled. A few heads turned to her. Currently, the long-winded Ooling March was giving the District's announcements. His hair was striped. It alternated into a climbing cone, like ice cream: pink, white, pink, white. His eyebrows were dyed the color of cotton candy to match.

"Shush," a girl next to her, Katya Montreal, said with a harsh glare.

Onstage, Ooling cleared his throat and gestured to the audience. "Inspired by this very war, the Capitol degreed that one man and woman should come from each district to fight for their very lives; this was their way of remembering the horrific events which conspired during the Dark Days."

Ooling gave a winning grin, striding over to the bowls in which the papers resided. Pushing his chubby fingers into the bowl, he selected one. His brow furrowed for a moment when it didn't open, and instead ripped in half.

Kat stifled a laugh, as did the twelve-year-olds in their proper section.

"Well," Ooling stalled, squinting and turning the paper until the pieces matched up. "It reads…..uhhh….K-Katie?"

A girl in the thirteen year old section squealed.

"No, no, that's not it," Ooling decided. "Ah!" A smile brightened his grotesquely made-up face. "Katherine!"

Kat swallowed. Crap.

Next to be chosen was the boy from District 11. Ooling was more careful drawing up this paper. He was a round man; not unlike an overstuffed pillow, slits of puffy yellow skin peeked out from his white suit.

"John?" Ooling phrased the person as a question. A tall boy emerged from the crowd, catching Kat's eye for a moment. He was tall, and fair-headed, wearing worn-out overalls. The tips of his fingers were smudged with purple stain – he was a berry picker. Which, Kat thought, was strange given that his build would allow for heavier work.

Ooling kissed Kat's cheek, leaving a wet, drippy mark. Next, he shook hands with John.

"Welcome, children, to the most exciting Games on earth."

Kat laughed, speaking aloud. "You're telling me."

* * *

Wesley pushed his sister forwards. "Come ON, Hannah. At this rate, we'll get there in two years."

"Fine with me," the girl muttered. There was no way she was getting all sweaty before tea later today with the Rackets, the most prominent Peacekeeper family in District 12. It would beat baking bread with her Aunt Su. The coal dust settled into every dish, making their bread lint-gray.

Wesley smiled. "Please?"

"No."  
He stuck his tongue out at her.

They reached the District's center. The banners that, in the other Districts, would hold the Capitol's symbol emblazoned in gold were ripped and muddy. They stayed up all year because no one bothered to take them down.

Truthfully, Wesley liked watching them deteriorate. Let it show the Capitol just how much the coal-mining district cared about the Games, and Reaping – all of it. Though, if they knew the citizens meant offense at their negligence, perhaps they wouldn't be so kind as to send the lazier Peacekeepers to the Seam. It was nothing but a blessing that the poachers, thieves, and starving weren't punished for their petty crimes.

Luckily, Wesley had moved Hannah out of her Mother's house when she was three. Their Mother was a harsh, sickly woman. She was bowlegged and abusive. When Wesley found employment downtown, they moved.

Hannah was glad she didn't remember her Mother, if she was anything like Wesley described. She didn't even bother to show up to Reapings; to see if her own children would be called.

Hannah heard Wesley's sharp intake of breath beside her. Next to the Head Peacekeeper sat a frizzy-haired woman who stared sharply at her older brother.

"Mom," Wesley whispered. Urgently, Hannah tugged at Wesley's sleeve.

"Are you serious? That's her?" Her voice was quick and high.

"Yeah." Wesley walked over to his section, mouthing _Don't look at her _at Hannah.

She did as she was told. She studied her thumbs as they danced in her lap. Underoverunderover they went until she heard her name. "Wesley?"

"No, sweetie. You're Hannah, right?"

Hannah turned her gaze upwards. The announcer was calling her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a smug smile on her Mother's face. What kind of mother was she? Making friends with the announcer, rigging it to call her?

"And Wesley. You, too. Come on. That's your sister? Well, that IS unlucky." The announcer spoke with Hannah's older brother in hushed tones.

"Well, I think that settles it, doesn't it, Henry?" A gratingly feminine voice spoke at the announcer. His eyes clouded over fuzzily before he continued.

"Yes, yes it does. This concludes the ceremony."


	6. Chapter 6

"Welcome, citizens of the twelve Districts and of the Capitol," greeted Garrett, facing the camera. Today, a large pitcher of thick blue liquid rested in wineglasses beside both Caesar and the Gamemaker.

"Today, we are watching as the Chariots are presented. In just a few moments, the tributes will emerge in their stylists' chosen apparel."

* * *

Jessica looked at Thomas oddly. They weren't dressed according to their District's product- jewels – but instead, in pinstriped suits and fedoras. Her blond hair was in Victory Rolls, her suit was a daringly short dress riding up on her thighs and dipping low in front. Red as roses, her lips had been painted with care. To what goal, Jessica didn't know.

She took a moment to see everyone's outfits. Across from her, Thomas seemed to scan the crowd with calculated skill. He was in a suit and jacket, red handkerchief matching the hue of her lips. Her hands were by her sides. She was told by Rebekkie to 'act seductive.' Fortunately, Jessica seemed to have skill in this. Notching a hand on her hip and pulling a leg forward to expose even more of her thigh, she boarded the chariot and hoped everyone was watching.

But she knew they already were.

* * *

The stylist for District 2 nearly laughed at the outfits the other tributes wore. Anxiously, he pulled at Robbie's feathered breastplate. It was purple and green, laced with peacock feathers. In his hand, he held a massive, gold-plated shield stamped with the District's symbol.

The female tribute for his District, Grace, wore a floor-length, mermaid dress glittering green and white. It shimmered as she walked. Sheathed in long gloves, her arms were crossed gracefully.

"I like it," she determined to Taylor. He beamed with pride. He only hoped the sponsors watching would like it, too.

* * *

Already seated comfortably on a cushioned seat in her chariot, Allison grimaced at what she was being made to wear. It was a dress: bright green and designed like a microchip, complete with whirring gears and a few twinkling lights. It was immensely heavy and sleeveless. She kept having to yank it upwards.

Envious of her fellow tribute, Colin, who only wore a suit studded with real cords and wires.

"Ugh," she groaned. "This is awful."

Colin leaned over towards her. "Hey, you're telling me. The suit is itchy."

She glared at him. "You have no idea."

But her sadness was unparalleled. She knew this would be the last taste of finery she'd be allowed before she died, probably.

* * *

Nick viewed his tributes. "Spin," he commanded. Serina and Benji did as they were told. He admitted, his work was unparalleled by the other Districts' stylists.

The dress Serina was in was a ballgown of silvery-green material. It glinted just like fish scales when she walked. Her hair was pulled up into a curled updo, eyes outlined in black and silver with long, diamond-encrusted lashes. Her lips were pink and gold to finish it off, slightly parted as she glanced her reflection.

Benji pulled his bowtie forwards. If he didn't know any better, he'd guess that Nick favored Serina. While she was in a massively exquisite ball gown, he was in a simple suit in the same fabric. A seeded hate began to grow in him. He'd have to work harder now in order to outshine her. She simply could not win.


	7. Chapter 7

"Wow! What stunning tributes!" Garrett exclaimed, taking a sip of the chalky blue liquid. A droplet splattered onto his suit. Fumbling to wipe if off, he introduced, "The next tributes!"

* * *

Allison and Stephen nervously glanced at their costumes. The ride in the chariot was bumpy enough without worrying if you were going to set something aflame. Their costumes, representing lightly their District's trade of technology, were crisscrossed with sparkling wires, all of which ended in a fizzy, shooting flame.

It was something both had seen before. The items, metal sticks with dipped ends, sometimes came on Parcel Day. They were called sparklers, and fizzed down to their metal nubs while the children wrote their names into the air and giggled. But on clothing? They made both of them nervous. When their stylist spoke of going out with a bang, they had doubted the literal meaning.

Their mistake.

* * *

This had to be the dumbest idea, possibly ever. Since District 6 provided the Capitol with transportation, they were dressed accordingly.

As freaking _trains_.

The top was pointed into the rounded end of a train, and on each side of their bodies black panels represented the sleek windows. Their faces were painted in tarlike, thick gray paint and they were slipped into dangerously high heeled shoes. Wobbling onto the precariously balanced chariot, Ally grabbed at Stephen's hand. He yanked it back, causing her to grope at the edge of the chariot for balance.

"What the heck?" she stare at him with shocked eyes.

He grinned. "We're leaving. Don't try to make any friends." His voice sounded like a warning.

Ally swallowed. This Games could be over for her sooner than she thought.

* * *

Whitt tugged on his costume. It was a flamboyant shirt and pants – skin tight leather, of course – emblazoned with feathers. While his were a deep crimson, Micaela's were yellow and she wore a massive ballgown of the same idea. Floating in the light, artificial breeze, they moved in silky waves when each of them moved.

The person responsible for their outfits, a tall, slender girl by the name of Caraway, scrutinized her work with brown eyes. While her eyes were untainted by any tampering, her hair was a bright turquoise-mint. In response to her work, she had twin feathers mixed in with the blue locks. One was yellow, and the other Whitt's red.

"Are you two ready?" she asked them. Micaela nodded nervously.

Whitt grinned. Something about the way Caraway talked reminded him of Sydney back home. "Sure I am." He winked at Caraway. She grinned, allowing a moment of teasing before her face turned serious.

"Then let's go."


	8. Chapter 8

District Eight's main export was textiles. Each year, the stylist for that district attempted to 'grasp the inner meaning; in their tribute's Chariot outfits.

And everyyear, the 'inner meaning' in clothes seemed to get shallower in shallower.

At least _this _year the stylist- a young, blond, willowy young man by the name of Sam – was trying. He had a light dusting of freckles across his nose, and glasses perched elegantly (which was unusual – surgery prevailed as the main method of "fixing" imperfections such as unclear vision) on the slope between his eyes glinted kindly.

At home in Eight, a quick smear of charcoal, warm from the hearth, along the lashline or a balm of strawberry juice and beeswax on the lips was all that was available to the majority of girls.

Of course, if you happened to be wealthier or had ties with the, sparkly powders and tan creams could be imported at steep prices. But Holly found the resulting effect to be nauseatingly attractive and far from worth the price.

In her District, the price a few older girls paid was offering 'personal favors' to Garth Captr'e, the Head Peacekeeper's son. He went by the name of Cap and smelled of cooked meat; too rich and too oily. Holly herself lived on stone-ground mealbread and the hardy blueish beans which grew on wiry vines in her backyard.

Her Mother, over the years, had concocted a number of ways to serve these – mashed with the cheap bacon runoff which was purchased in squat little ceramic jars from the butcher; cooked until soft, or simply baked into the mealbread and slathered with more runoff.

But Holly doubted that these Capitol citizens, too outrageous and lux for words, had seen many bitter beans and loaves of gritty mealbread.

Yet, despite the rich, flavor-sour meals she had enjoyed in the city so far, the other citizens who dined on this cuisine regularly maintained perfectly thin, symmetrical bodies. Yes, surgery was to blame. Waste much, perfect much more.

A few feet away, Berto was busy thinking of the sponsors who awaited him. He pulled on his outfit – a sleeveless tank top constructed of patches of hundreds of different fabrics. Waiting beside him, Holly's hair had been twisted into a clotted mass of braids and curls. They both doubted what kind of impression they would be making in the Capitol.

Suddenly, their Chariot jerked forwards, causing both tributes to fumble bouncily for balance. Recovering momentarily, they cupped their hands into pre-preformed waves and slapped half-ready grins on their faces.

Truth be told, neither Holly not Berto saw any eager potential sponsors amongst the crowd. They scanned the teens as treats to be devoured, and screamed as though they were in anguish. The artificial neons looked to be bouncing as frantic shouts and whistles burned too loud and too bright at the shell-shocked tributes.


	9. Chapter 9

Joni spun to her side, watching her wide-eyed, enraptured stare in the large mirror in front of her. The room she had been in the last day and a half now felt flamiliar. At first, it was clinical and cold as she was subjected to hours of plucking and tweezing all over her body. Followed quickly by layers of thick salves and rinsing baths, she felt like a new person. Stronger, somehow. Braver…to a point, that is.

What Orgine had done with their costumes for the Chariot ceremony was stunning. Fabric, golden bronze as sheaths of ripened wheat were laid in rows to form a flaring, gleaming ballgown. Her hair was painstakingly curled into large rings intertwined with gold thread. On her eyelids was patted shimmering gold dust. It only sparkled when she blinked due to the presence of thick black lashes skimming her brow bone.

Sparks and bursts of nervousness shattered their way through the marrow of her bones. Inpenetrable and gelatinous inside her chest, her heart thudded blood to her neck. She swallowed.

Her counterpart, Ben, was dressed in an uncomfortable-looking burlap vest, bowtie and pant set. But Joni was much too fidgety to dwell on that for long. Although, she got the faintest idea that Orgine, their stylist, favored her over Ben. He sent her hate-brimming glares when their eyes touched glances.

Joni knew she shouldn't really be excited – this was her death parade, after all, but yet she couldn't help being so. Everything about her was enthralled and sick and helpless, swept up in the barbaric excitement. It was all too much.

But this is the way it had been for as long as pretty much anyone could recall.

* * *

_Note: Morgan, you're Orgine. _

_Ravyn's in soon :)_


End file.
